Crossdressing Fortress
by Balloon Animal
Summary: Soldier trials a new method to whip his men into shape. Will lace panties and satin skirts really unleash the warrior within? Read and find out.
1. Soldier

If you haven't already read this on the tf2chan, then you may enjoy reading it here. This is quite possibly the silliest thing I have ever written. But that is what fanfiction is for, isn't it? Enjoy!

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><p>It had been Soldier's scheme. Perhaps not the craziest scheme the delusional military man had ever devised, but it was definitely in the top ten. He'd spent a sleepless night refining the details and drawing out schematics for the team meeting scheduled at oh' nine hundred that morning.<p>

It was a masterwork. A combat strategy that would make Sun Tzu himself weep at the sheer flawlessness of it. Solder had never been more ready to address his troops.

He had spent the past hour explaining it with obsessive detail. The RED team was currently losing to the BLU's by a 0.05% margin, and to the RED Soldier this was unacceptable. He had devised a foolproof system that would ensure every member of the team would pull their weight. Malingerers would be punished in the most punitive method Soldier could devise. As he had expected, there was some resistance. That's what happened when you ran a nancy team of liberals and girl scouts.

"I have taken the preemptive liberty of requisitioning additional supplies. Maybe this time you ladies will think again the next time you decide to dishonour your country by _losing_."

Demoman was the first to break the silence.

"I'm open to new idea's an' everything, but ye've gone daffy. Ye can't seriously expect us tae go along with this?"

Medic pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I am afraid I have to agree with Herr Demoman. This is ludicrous. I vill have no part in it."

"Yeah!" Piped in Scout, always compelled to contribute an opinion. "I ain't doin' none of that crap. Count me out."

Soldier smacked his shovel down onto the boardroom table. Insubordination would not be tolerated. "I see you maggots enjoy the taste of failure! You make me sick. I'd shoot every one of you dead right now if there wasn't a contractual clause preventing me."

"Well, if I could play devil's advocate for a moment fellas. Maybe this here plan ain't so silly?"

All heads turned Engineers way. He tried to ignore the embarrassment he felt defending Soldier's looney idea. "All I'm sayin' is that I know I'd try harder if this directive hung over my head. Wouldn't everyone?"

No one could argue with that. They all sat around the table fidgeting and avoiding eye contact.

Soldier however, was thrilled that someone could see the genius in this ploy. "That was a commendable speech private! The rest of you princesses should take a page out of Engineer's book. A man's book. Written by a man."

"Well that's the bloody point, innit? None of us want to prance about like sheilas. We're men!" Argued Sniper.

"I see." Mused Spy while he took a long drag on his cigarette. "Ze goal is to 'umiliate us until our performance improves. A valid strategy, if not a sound one."

"Nah uh! No way. Forget it." Scout was resolute.

Heavy frowned, his mind slowly catching up with the conversation. "So… if we wear these clothes, we will crush more of coward BLU team? Is strange, but if works I could try…"

"I say we vote on it." Engineer folded his arms and looked at the rest of the team in defiance. "Heck, if it means we'll win more battles, I'm willin' to try anything."

"I like your thinking," shouted Soldier. "We'll do this the American way. With DEMOCRACY! Once again, you've done me proud private." He saluted Engineer with perfect form.

Engineer smiled back weakly.

The votes were as follows: Demoman, Medic, Scout and Sniper were steadfast against the idea. The more open-minded members to vote in favour were Soldier, Engineer, Heavy and Spy.

The future of the RED team's masculinity hung in the balance with one vote.

Everyone looked at Pyro with baited breath.

"Well, what's it gonna be ya mumbling freak?" Demanded Scout. He didn't have a very high tolerance for suspense.

Pyro tilted his head to the side and hummed as he gave it more thought. "Mmmphh hudda."

And if that was unclear, he presented the team with a shiny thumbs up.

It was settled. Operation Lady Clothes was a-go.

* * *

><p>The rule was simple. The team member who achieved the least kills for the day would be subjected to the ultimate shame; wearing women's clothing until the next battle. Whether the team won or lost was irrelevant. The loser of a winning team was still a loser.<p>

In Soldier's opinion there was no better way to man someone up than to completely emasculate him. There was only one thing that was worse than being a hippie freeloader, and that was being a woman. He had watched over these men for long enough now that he knew their weaknesses and insecurities. He had personally handpicked clothes that reflected these flaws and would eventually (if his military training manual was correct), eliminate them.

It was an ironic twist of fate when ultimately it was Soldier who was the first to fall under the wrath of this tyrannical new law. A day of barking at his men to stop gossiping about lipstick had left him short on time to annihilate the opposition. He'd spent so much time striking the fear of God into the RED team that he hadn't paid attention to the kill tally. At the end of the day everyone was in for a surprise.

Soldier had the least kills of the day.

Despite the humiliating condition of this rule, he managed to take it with every ounce of dignity. He held his head high as he did the walk of shame.

Scout wolf-whistled as he tottered into the common room. "Oh yeah baby. Move those legs."

Spy tilted his head in appreciation. "My, my Soldier. I would not 'ave though zhat fishnet stockings would suit you so well. And you make walking in such impractical shoes look effortless. Magnifique!"

Despite his feminine clothing, Soldier refused to part with his helmet. It hung over his eyes and helped to partially obscure his burning cheeks. "I hope you're all getting a good look maggots! It will be your turn soon."

"You're lucky I'm a gentleman Solly," teased Engineer, "a lesser man would throw you on the table and have his way with you."

Soldier subconsciously pulled down the back of his black mini-skirt. It had the infuriating habit of riding up whenever he walked faster than a snails pace. His fishnets and fuck-me boots were complimented with a pink boob-tube stuffed with coconut halves (for authenticity). Unfortunately Soldier just didn't have the figure to pull it off.

"Leetle man is now leetle lady." Chuckled Heavy. "In Motherland women do not wear these things. Is too cold."

"I am not certain any self-respecting fräulein would wear such clothing." Frowned Medic. "Zhis whole experiment is fraught with unprofessional theatrics."

"Ahh, Medic's jus' jealous." Said Demoman. "Don't ye listen to 'im Soldier. Ye lookin' mighty fine."

Sniper lewdly suggested a chest wax. It was a comment too far for Soldier's already bruised ego and it earned the Australian an impromptu fistfight. The team was quick to surround the scuffling pair, cheering and egging them on with explicit suggestions.

Sprawled out across Sniper, Soldier's skirt took on a mind of it's own and hiked up his waist to expose a pair of overly muscular, fishnet clad buttocks. It was possibly the most erotic sight the team had witnessed since moving to the base, and that was a depressing thought.

Despite his handicap, Soldier emerged the victor. Sniper could only lie there and take it. He just didn't have the heart to hit a lady.


	2. Spy

The next unfortunate victim of this law was Spy, much to his annoyance. He wondered if this was going to become a routine. The art of Spying wasn't about mindless carnage. He left that job to the boorish oafs on his team whom he was too polite to personally identify. There was flair and subtly to each of his backstabs that this new rule completely overlooked. Perhaps there wasn't as much quantity with his kills, but he more than made up for it with quality. It was injustice of the highest order.

He huffed as he adjusted his bonnet. He always took the effort to look well presented, and simply wearing women's clothing would not change that fact. For identity protection his balaclava remained, but everything else was a picture of femininity.

Soldier had picked out a unique outfit for every member of the team. They were hand tailored to compliment each mercenary's personality. Spy was appropriately assigned a French maid's outfit, complete with feather duster. The fine fabric was crumpled from storage, which was why Spy had spent the last hour carefully ironing it out. Maids had standards and so did he.

Dressing like a woman didn't really bother him as much as he might have professed. During his long career in espionage he had been subjected to far worse disguises. He patted the recently shaved skin around his mouth with a floral scented aftershave. It wouldn't do to have stubble when dressed in this outfit. In Spy's opinion, it was the attention to detail that separated the cream from the milk.

Lacing up his own corset was difficult, but pride vetoed any request for assistance. To his surprise the shiny black high heels fit perfectly. He wondered how Soldier sourced a manufacturer who even made them in his size. Spy made a personal note to do some reconnaissance on Soldier's supplier. Solider had put a suspicious amount of effort into this whole operation.

But, that would have to wait for later. Right now he had a job to do, and that was to dress like a dainty cleaning lady.

He appraised himself in the mirror, running his hands down his waist and along the lacy ribbon holding his apron in place. No, dressing like a woman wasn't unpleasant at all.

Maybe, in the right circumstance, it could even be enjoyable.

Being a spy for so long meant that his ability to shifting into character came as easily as blinking. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes before he opened them with a brand new perspective. "Ah, sacrebleu!" He said, his voice a full octave higher. "Everything is filthy! Men, zhey are such abominable pigs."

Walking out into the common room came with the expected immature comments. Scout was always the most vocal, with predictable lines such as "hey baby" and "whataya doin' tonight, dollface?" Spy knew the only way to retain his dignity was to appear completely impassive. He strode past the men, not entirely hating the attention he was receiving.

"How do you like it now, maggot?" Shouted Soldier who was much more at home dressed in his army fatigues. "How does it feel to show the world you're a lazy surrender monkey?"

"Ooh monsieur, I am so embarrassed!" Tittered Spy. "I am only here to be at your service." He leaned over the table and batted his eyes at the confused American. "Eet is 'ard to control myself around such a big, strong man."

This was not the response Soldier expected. He tugged at his collar and cleared his throat. "Well, uh, carry on madam. Uh, I mean private."

Soldier was quick to make a hasty retreat. The rest of the team however, were a little more enamoured with Spy's new persona.

"Aye mate, I have some rods back in me van that need a good polish." Said Sniper as he leaned back on the couch and tipped his hat at Spy.

Spy sauntered up to Sniper, carefully placing one heeled foot in front of the other. He dusted the top and Sniper's hat and leaned down at eye level with the Australian. "I 'ave seen the inside of your van. You are a filthy man."

"All the more reason for you to be there, yeah?" Sniper's face stretched out in a sharp toothed grin.

Spy was aware that they were pushing the boundaries of playful banter. Perhaps he should tone it down. He knew how convincing he could be.

With a flick of his feather duster, Spy sent Sniper's hat flying across the room. "Humph!" He stood up and looked down his nose at the man before waving a hand at his laced up corset. He turned away, making his short skirt bounce at the movement. "You could not afford it."

Spy smiled to himself. He didn't need to look back to know what effect he'd had on Sniper. The rest of the team hadn't taken their eyes off him. Interesting. Spy was of course well trained in the fine art of seduction. Every self-respecting spy was. Unfortunately, it was a talent that had no use in his current place of work. Spy worried that being isolated for so long with these nitwits would keep him out of practice. So, he was surprised at how naturally it came back to him when given the opportunity. He approached Engineer who was twirling his helmet nervously in his hands.

"Monsieur ingénieur." He flicked some feathers across the Texan's bald head making the man squirm. "Can you believe ze boors I 'ave to work with."

"Well now," Engineer murmured. Not quite prepared to look directly at Spy. "Y'all don't have to worry about me behavin' like that. I can show a lady respect."

"Oooh darling." He leaned down, making sure his chest rubbed against Engineer's shoulder, and gave him a light peck on the cheek. "I know you can. You are ze sweetest thing."

Spy walked away from the stuttering Engineer smiling to himself. Men were so easy to manipulate.

That evening Spy enjoyed himself immensely. Somehow his clothes gave him a newfound power that not even his masculine, Italian suited persona had achieved. His colleagues were more than happy to drop what they were doing to satisfy any request Spy demanded. By the end of the night Spy was seriously considering throwing the next fight for another opportunity to play 'la femme de chamber'.

When he returned to his room for the night, he discovered a bouquet of handpicked wildflowers placed against his door. He picked them up an inhaled deeply.

"Belle." He sighed, and pushed his door open.


	3. Medic

It was only to be expected that Medic was the next victim in this humiliating exercise. The role of a medic had never been focused on offence or kill-counts. He was a support class whose job it was to follow and heal the more appropriately armed classes. But, no amount of German expletives could convince the Soldier that this should be taken into consideration. According to Soldier he wasn't using the best of his abilities to exterminate the BLU team and he should go cry over some sauerkraut if he didn't like it.

Even Medic had to admit, that was fascism.

So here he was, looking mournfully at he candy striper nurse's outfit that was spread across his bed. Wearing that thing was the second worse thing that could happen to him today. The first would be Soldier bursting in and forcibly dressing him (which he had actually threatened to do).

He sighed and picked up a pair of cream silk stockings, delicately embroidered with pink hearts and medical crosses. Medic could only scoff at the detail. He found it astounding that Soldier was using company money to purchase these ludicrous hand-tailored garments. The money would have been far better spent on weapon upgrades, or even recreation facilities. Lacy pink panties were _not _a tax deductable business expense.

He threw the stockings back on the bed. He hadn't voted for this and he had every right to refuse. He was a man of decorum. A man of pride. He sighed and thought back to the previous night. Spy wasn't so affected by this silly ceremony, so maybe it wasn't as bad as it seemed? He'd just get it over with tonight and devise a way to kill more enemies tomorrow.

Steeling himself, he decided to start with the most innocuous piece of clothing. He placed the nurses cap on his head and adjusted his hair beneath it. Well, that was easy enough, but squeezing into the stripy thigh-high dress, embellished with an underskirt of tulle would prove a bigger challenge.

He grumbled as he fumbled with the bra latch. He was a professional with more than 30 years of medical experience and this is what he was reduced to. Struggling to fit into lady's unmentionables. Ridiculous.

There was loud pounding on his door. "You've been in there an awful long time, Fritz! I'll give you two more minutes before I court-martial you for noncompliance with a direct order."

"Ja, ja, dummkopf." Medic muttered under his breath. He finally figured out the bra and slipped the dress over his head. It was just as well, because Soldier proved true to his word and kicked the door in with a strike of his steel capped boot.

"_Scheiße_!" Medic hopped away and wrapped his arms around his chest protectively. "Are zhere any manners left in zhis base?"

"Time's up, weisswurst! It's time to go out there and show everyone the kind of man you are. Not much of one! Outside on the double, private. ONE TWO ONE TWO!"

"I am getting to it!" Screeched Medic, secretly ashamed at his own melodrama. He took a long breath, ran a hand over his face to compose himself and turned to face Soldier. "But, since you are here, vould you be so kind as to zip me up? I cannot reach zhat far."

Medic turned his back to the American. As silly as it was to dress like a woman, it was sillier still to improperly dress like a woman. He waited for an awkward moment before he turned around to see what the holdup was.

Soldier held his hands in a frozen, claw-like pose, hovering inches away from the zip at the back of Medic's dress. He looked fretful, unsure of his next move.

"Vell?" Asked Medic, more annoyed at Soldier's strange behaviour than anything else. "Do you vant me out zhere or not? Zip up mein dress!"

At the sound of Medic's voice, Soldier shook his head and snapped out of his trance. "Ah, outside. Right! I'll just…"

It took an unusual amount of effort, but Soldier finally got there. The zip went up with a 'vvvvrrrp!' and Medic's outfit was complete. He patted his dress down and took some tentative steps in the small pink slippers that came with the uniform. "Many thanks for your help, Herr Soldier. Now I can get zhis exercise in disgrace ovah with."

He wobbled out into the corridor, instinctively looking both ways. He wanted to avoid sneak mockery where he could. However, he couldn't have predicted how eager the team was to see his getup. It was a deafening chorus of whoops and hollers when he finally did step in sight of the men. Apparently this new regulation was fast becoming a highly anticipated event.

"Hey Nurse! I have a bedpan here ya might wanna change."

"Blimey! Take my temperature Doc, cause I'm hot all over."

Medic didn't have the inner strength to take it in his stride like Spy did. Every jibe stung as much as a hypodermic needle. Occasionally he would take the bait and snap back with vitriol. "Ja, ja. Let's all haff a big chuckle. Perhaps you vill not find it so funny tomorrow vhen nobody is healing your _severed limbs_!"

A large palm squeezed his shoulder and momentarily distracted Medic from the jeering crowd.

"Doktor does not look so bad." Heavy looked down at Medic sheepishly.

"Ah Heavy," Medic sagged. He was tired of fighting back. "You are alvays kind. But you do not need to lie."

Heavy's eyebrows crinkled together in a frown. "Is not so fair. Doktor is always helping team. I could not kill so many coward babies without."

"Zhat is true, but ze imbecile Soldier does not see it zhat way. I am resigned to play zhis absurd role until he grows a brain."

Heavy listened to Medic silently and twiddled his enormous fingers, occasionally sneaking glances at the hem of Medic's dress. Medic didn't have the patience for indirect hints. He huffed and looked Heavy in the eye. "If you haff somezing to say, zhen say it!"

Heavy hesitated, and then said; "I do not lie. Doktor does look nice…"

Any response that hung on Medic's breath would never be known. Demoman was quick to interrupt the pair with a pained expression stretched across his face.

"Ah don't mean tae interrupt yer pleasantries, but ah got a wee bitova problem Doc."

"Oh, so you are running out of obscene comments to say about me?"

"Eh…" A bead of sweat dripped down Demo's brow. "Nooo. I ne'er do a thing like tha'. Honest ta god."

Medic peered at Demoman in suspicion. His distress seemed genuine enough, but when wearing a frilly nurse's outfit, Medic couldn't be too sure.

Demoman gripped the front of Medic's dress with white knuckles. "Please Doc, yea've got no idea."

"Would Doktor like help?" Heavy watched over the scene, more than happy to step in and take preventative action.

Medic looked around the room and at all the juvenile men who were still looking at him and elbowing each other swapping crude jokes. It dawned on him that this was exactly the opportunity he was looking for.

He grabbed Demoman and pressed a hand to his forehead in a pantomime of medical care. "Mein gott! You are ill. Dying even! I must take you to ze infirmary at once. Ve can't delay!"

Heavy hovered over them looking confused. "Leetle man does not look so sick."

"Trust me Heavy, I am a doctor. Zhis is a very serious case. It might take all night. No need to follow me." And then as an afterthought he added; "and don't let anyvun interrupt!"

He pushed the grateful Scot out through the door. Demoman was clearly in a sensitive state. The way he walked reminded Medic of a cowboy from one of those films that Scout liked so much. It was peculiar but Medic was not the one to complain right now.

As soon as they reached the infirmary, Medic shut and locked the door with lightning speed and leaned against it sighing, relieved to be away from the mockery. "Schweinhunds," he murmured.

"I knoo yer havin' a moment an all, bu' I have a pressin' matter tae attend to."

"Ach! Fine." Medic kicked off his ridiculous slippers and pulled out some fresh gloves from the supply cabinet. He snapped them on, satisfied to have a familiar piece of clothing back on his person. The tulle material of his dress was beginning to itch against his thighs when he walked. He was sure that actual candy stripers did not have that particular design incorporated in their uniforms. It was impractical if anything else.

"So vhat is ze problem?" He assessed Demoman's pained posture. He remained standing, even though the medical table was right next to him. "Constipation? You really must amend your diet, Herr Demo. Zhere is not too much fiber in ethanol."

"Ah… s'not quite right but ye gettin' warmer."

Curious, Medic approached Demo. "Do you haff an injury from ze battle today zhat I vas not made aware of?"

"Ehh, not exactly. Listen doc, I cannae take much more a' this."

"Vell, I cannot treat you if you do not describe your symptoms."

At this, Demoman's discomfort only seemed to increase. He gripped his flak jacket and moved his weight from foot to foot. "Ye' promise ta tell noone aboot this? I'm not sure ah can live it doon."

"Demo, you are trying my patience. Please remove your garments so zhat I can inspect you, danke."

Demoman tenderly turned to face the table. He took great care to unbuckle his pants, allowing them to drop down in a crumpled heap around his ankles. He groaned and bent over slightly to rest his arms against the gurney. "If ye have any forceps, tha' be mightily appreciated."

Medic approached curiously. "So vat is ze prob-MEIN GOTT!"

Demoman buried his face in his hands. "Ah knoo! But I cannae get it out! Ye've got tae help me!"

How Demoman had managed it, Medic would not know. Inserted deep into his rectum was the toe end of a shiny black high heel shoe. The stiletto of this foreign object pressed against his testicles, looking very uncomfortable. It was simultaneously comical and horrifying.

"Demo, vhat is the meaning of zhis?"

"I couldnae help me'self Doc. It's been so long since ah' felt the touch of a lass. All these pretty clothes have been drivin' me crazy."

"And so you thought inserting Spy's shoe into your anus vould be an adequate substitute? You are a disturbed man Herr Demo." Medic rummaged through the supply cabinet again and put another pair of gloves over the top of his first pair. He didn't want to risk catching Demoman's mental illness via skin contact.

Demoman hung his head in shame. "Jus' get me out of this. Ah, promise I'll ne'er touch a shoe again."

Medic pulled a chair over and sat down to begin the unpleasant job of removing the item in question. "You vill be lucky if you haff not perforated your bowel." He smeared some medical lubricant across Demo's orifice and began to slowly tug at the shoe.

Demoman jumped. "Ah, tha's colder than a penguin's tit."

"I am afraid you haff only yourself to blame. If I vas no so disgusted, I vould be impressed. Spy is a size 12."

It took some time, but Medic was finally able to extract the shoe. He scrunched his nose as he threw it into a nearby bedpan. Demoman was nearly transcendent with relief.

"Ahhhh, oh me lord. Oh mother o' Christ! Ah feel like ah've shat a horse."

As a matter of precaution, Medic trained his medigun on Demoman's exposed buttocks. He let the healing vapours do their job while Demoman panted, still bent over the table. "Zhere appears to be no permanent damage. Except perhaps to my psyche."

"Ye a gift from God Doctor."

"You are not excused yet. I feel it necessary to give you a thorough psychiatric examination."

Demoman wiggled his hips, still basking in the glow of relief. Finally he pulled his pants back up and moved to sit comfortably on the bed. Now that there wasn't a shoe wedged up his nether regions, he could concentrate on other matters.

Specifically, the fact that Medic was dressed in a nurse's outfit.

"Yea have a real woman's touch Doc. Are ye goin tae charge me for this?"

"Okay! Ze psychiatric assessment is ovah!" He rose from his seat and walked to the door, his skirt bouncing with each stride. Unlocking and opening it, he gestured at the corridor. "Out. Now."

"Alright, alright. Ah can take a hint ye crank." Demoman slid of the table and walked through the door. He looked back at the Medic with a sly smile. "It must be tha' time o' the month."

Medic slammed the door so hard the windows rattled.


	4. Heavy

Medic was the 'lady' of the base for three more days before Heavy took pity on him. It broke Heavy's giant heart to witness the intelligent and dignified doctor locking himself in a toilet cubicle to avoid the incessant laughter of the men. Heavy decided that he would not allow this to happen again.

The next day, for the first time in living memory, Heavy did not participate in a fight.

In the heat of battle, with everyone shooting and swearing around him, Heavy simply stood in place scratching his nose. Sacha was cold and idle by his side. He silently asked for his weapon's forgiveness and promised that in the next match he would kill twice as many coward babies.

It wasn't long before Medic figured out what he was doing and begged him to reconsider. Heavy didn't deserve such a terrible fate.

Heavy simply shrugged and looked at the sky. "Is nice day. Too nice for fighting. Doktor should go ahead. Will catch up later."

Medic's eyes glistened with emotion and he whispered, "You are too good to me." Before he could burst out in tears, Medic turned and ran towards the battle, bonesaw in hand and coat tails flapping behind him.

Heavy sighed as he watched his Doktor go. He didn't like missing out on a fight but there would always be others.

Naturally, the REDs lost that particular fight. Soldier screamed at Heavy until his face turned purple. What kind of useless COMMUNIST forfeits a match and DISGRACES his team? He let the BLU's just walk past him without even so much as a threatening gesture. In one instance Heavy actually gave the BLU Scout directions on the quickest route to the Intel room. In Soldier's words, if all the dishonorable men from all the armies of dishonor formed their own army of dishonorable men, Heavy would be the most dishonorable man of that army.

Heavy took this verbal abuse with solemnity. He didn't interrupt Soldier's tirade to make any protest, and when it was over he retired to his room without a word. Whatever Soldier had prepared for him couldn't be worse than state of misery that Medic was being subjected to. Heavy hoped that his sacrifice would open the floor to negotiation regarding Medic's role on the team.

But for now there were some practical hurdles that he had to face.

After some considerable struggle squirming into the tight fitted outfit, Heavy very nearly conceded defeat. There were certain kinds of clothing that just weren't designed for a man of his stature.

He poked his head out his bedroom door and was relieved to see Medic fretfully pacing the hallway.

"Doktor," he whispered. "I am needing help."

Medic looked up, startled. He rushed over nearly tripping over his feet. "Oh Heavy. You dummkopf! You did not need to do this for me."

Heavy shrugged. "Is not problem if it is for you. But… if Doctor could help with shoes. Is hard to do alone."

Medic stared back at Heavy, horror frozen in his features.

Heavy tapped a large finger gently on Medic's forehead, concerned by this sudden change in behaviour. "Is this alright? Did I say a bad thing?"

Medic blinked several times before he shook his head roughly, snapping out of his trance. "Nein. Forgive me, I vas remembering a bad dream. May I ask… vhat is your particular concern with ze shoes?"

"The leetle ribbons. There are so many of them. I am getting confused on how to tie them."

Medic looked ready to faint with relief. "Vell, that is something I think can handle. Let me in bitte."

Heavy gave the hallway a quick survey, making sure there were no uninvited eyes watching. When he felt assured, he opened the door its full width to allow the doctor in his room. He turned his gaze away, knowing that Medic's reaction was not going to be a positive one.

Medic stared at Heavy, momentarily stunned. He knew that ladies clothing was never going to flatter Heavy, but he had not prepared himself for the sight that was now assaulting his eyes. "Oh, mein Heavy," he breathed. "Vhat haff they done to you?"

"Is not so bad," murmured Heavy, his large hands brushing his ruffled tutu nervously.

In a bizarre homage to Russia's dance culture, he was now wearing a prima ballerina dress. The white leotard was stretched to its limit as it strained to encompass Heavy's sizable girth. If the dress was taken out of the context of the mercenary wearing it, it was actually quite beautiful. Shiny pearl beads were sewn in intricate patterns, swirling up Heavy's torso, shimmering when he moved. He had delicate silk stockings pulled up his squat legs. Cream feathers were stitched into the folds of the tutu, and the whole outfit was capped off with a glittering tiara with sprouting swan feathers that sat absurdly atop Heavy's bald head. It was everything that Heavy wasn't.

"You cannot go out there wearing zhat. You vill be a laughing stock!"

Heavy looked down at his getup, assessing it thoughtfully. "I have solution. If tiny man laughs, I crush them. Is simple."

"Oh Heavy," Medic sighed. "If only it vere zhat easy. If you cut Scout's head off, I'm sure he vould learn sign language just to continue taunting you. Zhere is a strange power zhat comes with idiocy."

Heavy sat on his bed, springs groaning with the weight. "It takes more than leetle lady dress to hurt Heavy Weapons Guy."

"Ja, vell. I hope you can remind yourself zhat when you are out zhere amongst those imbeciles. Let's get your shoes on before Soldier arrives vith his obnoxious yelling."

Heavy was quiet while Medic help tug his satin ballet slippers on, enjoying the contact more than he could admit. The doctor appeared strangely reassured by the fact that the slippers were made from a soft, malleable material. Lacing up the long ribbon up Heavy's stout calves was a minor challenge, but Medic's dexterous hands made short work of it.

Finally Heavy's outfit was complete. He twiddled his feet, unused to wearing such snug footwear. When his eyes withdrew from watching Medic, his gaze travelled up and over his body. His bulbous paunch that overhung the fine weave of the tutu did nothing to compliment it. The white stockings were so stretched they were almost transparent. Heavy realized that that all the imperfections of his body that he had contentedly ignored for so many years were suddenly put in sharp focus. Nothing could be hidden in this dress.

"Are you alright?" The concerned Medic asked, still awkwardly squatted at Heavy's feet.

It was a very rare occasion when Heavy let his true vulnerability shine through. His fiddled with the bed sheets as he avoided Medic's eye contact. A shadow of sadness crossed his face.

"Doktor…" He said quietly.

"Yes, Heavy."

"This dress… is it making me look fat?"

Medic had not been expecting this question. He almost laughed out loud with the absurdity of it. He wisely stifled the urge. Heavy looking down on him with doe eyes was more than he had prepared for. Sometimes it was easy to forget that even bloodthirsty mercenaries with multi-barrel heavy machine guns had feelings too.

He stood up and gripped Heavy's face with both hands, making sure he was looking deep into the Russian's eyes. "Heavy. You are not fat. You are four times ze man zhan anyone here on zhis base. No one else vould have ze courage to do what you have done for a friend. Now go out zhere and show zhem vhat you are made of!"

"Da!" Medic's little speech reignited the fire in Heavy. Perhaps it was his attire that had opened up this well of emotion in Heavy, or maybe it was simple Medic's kind words, but something inside him compelled the large man to throw caution to the wind that night. He pulled the stunned doctor into a bruising kiss, feeling his tutu crumple between their bodies.

The randomness of this action meant that Medic didn't put up much resistance. They stayed like that for a full minute, sharing every breath. When Heavy finally pulled away, Medic was completely and utterly bewildered.

Heavy held his head up, fully returned to his jovial self. He fixed his tutu and headed out the door, bellowing as he moved. "Look out world, I am coming for you! Do ho ho!"

Medic remained in the room with his glasses askew on his nose, gaping in shock.

* * *

><p>It was a testament to Heavy's influence that even when dressed as a dainty ballerina he did not earn open public ridicule. There were jokes of course, but they were far less confrontational than the kind Medic had experienced.<p>

Heavy's ten-pound fists were also working in his favor. Scout's teeth could vouch for that.

It couldn't be denied though, that Heavy did look ridiculous. Perhaps it wasn't his costume, but more his movement when he walked. Heavy did not float like a feather so much as roll like a boulder. His ballet slippers, designed for pointe dancing and pirouetting instead scraped across the ground with as much care as a man who wore tissue boxes on his feet.

Spy was the first to step in with suggestions.

"Non, non, non! You cannot treat such finery so carelessly. Ballet is a respected art. It is 'urting my soul to watch you."

"And leetle Spy thinks he knows better?" Heavy approached the wiry man, not looking so open to suggestion.

"All I am saying is zhat ballet requires delicate technique. You must be respectful of ze tradition." Spy realized he was going to have to do some hasty backpedalling. The sound of Heavy's cracking knuckles made his blood hurt.

Fortunately, it was Sniper of all people who rescued him from this dire situation.

"I used to do ballet." He said, not even looking up from the paper he was reading.

"Que?" Spy's head nearly spun 180 degrees.

Heavy also tilted his head up, surprised at this revelation.

Engineer, who was trying to unobtrusively eavesdrop on this conversation couldn't help but let out a snort over his blueprints.

Sniper put his paper down to peer over his aviators. "Oh, so you think that's funny do you?"

"Ah didn't say nothin'." Engineer fiddled with his slide rule and pretended to do some technical drawing.

"I'll have you know that's it's a fine sport. Mind you, I was just a tyke when I did it."

Spy ducked under Heavy's arm to approach the Australian, who was beginning to regret ever saying anything. "Forgive me Sniper, it is just… you do not seem ze type for it."

"And why is that? Cause I'm a professional killer? That don't mean I'm uncultured. I tell you what, I'm getting bloody sick of these stereotypes, strewth!"

The gears in Spy's head were already turning. He slithered over to Sniper and rested a hand delicately on his shoulder. "If this is so, zhen perhaps you could show our dear Heavy a few basic steps, non? If would be a shame if such a beautiful dress did not see its potential."

"Oh no. That ain't happening. Not a chance." Sniper slumped down on the couch, almost pulling the paper over his head.

Engineer looked back up from his work, unable to contain himself. "Well I'll be darned if ah wasn't curious. The best I've ever done is a barn dance."

Heavy approached the group, trying to follow the conversation. "Leetle Sniper will dance for me?"

Sniper threw his paper down and sat up. "For the last bleedin' time, I said no! Like I said, it was a long time ago. It'll be a cold day in Kakadu before you see me gettin' me tights back on."

Spy threw his hands up in a resignation. "C'est la vie. It is only to be expected. You are now an old man after all. We can 'ardly expect you to be capable of the physical demands that ballet requires. You cannot sit still all day pissing in jars and expect to retain your physical ability."

Five minutes later Sniper was up and showing Heavy the five ballet positions.

"Listen mate, ye've gotta push your feet out more."

"Am trying! Is not so easy to do."

Heavy was sweating in concentration. His attempt at turning his feet out into the first position was proving harder than expected. For all the strength he could claim his name to, Heavy only had a fraction of the flexibility.

"Stop bending your legs like that. And straighten your back! You look like you're straining on the dunny."

Spy and Engineer watched in fascination. Spy, who was a connoisseur of classical ballet, was muffling his mirth with chain smoking. Engineer couldn't help but be impressed with Sniper's knowledge on the subject. It certainly was a brutal pastime.

"We haven't even gotten to fifth position yet. Blimey!" Sniper threw his hat down on the ground in frustration. All the memories of his childhood were rushing back to him. The torment of perfecting the plié. The exhilaration of his first jeté. He looked back at Heavy who was utterly forlorn in his failure. For a moment Sniper was overcome with homesickness. Some sympathy welled in his heart and he decided to take pity on the big man. "Ah, keep your chin up mate. Takes years to get it right."

Heavy looked down at the ground. "Is sad day to be giant man."

Sniper breathed in, remembering his glory days. "Solo ballet is fine, but the best part is when you're dancing with a partner. Nothin' like liftin' a pretty Sheila over your head."

Heavy immediately perked at this. "Lifting. This I can do!"

He grabbed Sniper by the waist, and before he even realized what was happening, Sniper was dangling straight over Heavy's head. "Bloody hell! The lady ain't supposed to lift the bloke!"

Spy breathed out a plume of smoke. "Pah. Sloppy technique."

It was exactly at this inopportune time that Scout made his reappearance, clutching an icepack to his jaw. He stopped for a moment and looked at the scene in front of him.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Warn me the next time you wanna practice your erotic dancing, twinkle toes."

After that Heavy was more than happy to give Scout his own personal demonstration of the 'Nutcracker'.


	5. Demoman

Whoops. Fixed the italics!

Enjoy the story, yo!

* * *

><p>It was the blinding light of the afternoon sun that eventually woke Demoman from his alcoholic stupor. It burned into his eyeball like white-hot magnesium. He rolled onto his back with a groan. There was nothing like an afternoon hangover to greet you from your slumber.<p>

"Aww, me bleeding ballsacks. Ah could puke me kidneys out."

True to his word, Demoman leaned to the side and expunged a truly remarkable amount of viscous vomit. After he gave a few more heaves and was sure that there wasn't a drop of bile left in his gut, he lay back down on the ground with a heavy thump.

His vision hadn't quite returned yet. Demoman would attribute this to his eye injury. Any correlation between heavy drinking and sight impairment had no scientific foundation, and you could smoke hairy horse balls if you suggested it.

He rubbed the crust out of his good eye. He was all too familiar with the process. It took a few minutes to remember who he was, then where he was, and lastly, why he was there. He was usually good to go after he cleared up those minor details.

He surveyed his surroundings. There was a high wooden ceiling above him with long oak rafters. When he turned his head away from the puddle of vomit he could smell the earthy scent of hay.

Well, now he knew where he was. For whatever reason he had passed out in the hayloft that was built into the side of the RED base. He gurgled some incomprehensible expletives and hoisted himself into an upright position. The room span with his movement and despite recently voiding it, his stomached lurched.

His memory was a blurry haze. He could vaguely remember that he had a job to do. It could have been an important job, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Demoman had bigger problems right now, and that was getting down the ladder that led to the ground level of the barn.

When he took his first few wobbling steps he knew that something wasn't quite right. He couldn't feel the comforting weight of his flak jacket on his chest and his feet were missing his well-worn steel capped boots. He blearily looked down and squinted, trying to gain some focus on what he was seeing. He was wearing some kind of puffy white material. That was all he could determine at this point in time, so he made the executive decision to deal with it later.

He managed to take shaky steps down the ladder, and when he reached the ground level he had to lean against the wall to take a recovery break. Inebriation had the uncanny ability to reduce a grown man's motor skills to that of an infant.

Demoman turned to face the wall. Nature was calling and finding a bathroom was beyond anything he could achieve now. He managed to hoist the white fabric up around his hairy thighs to relieve himself against the wall.

"Ahhh, tha's heaven!"

Lost in the bliss of urination, he was more than a little perturbed to have the moment interrupted by a blaring voice. It pierced his skull like a sniper's bullet.

"If it isn't sleeping beauty coming out of her magical princess slumber. Well it's WAKEY WAKEY time maggot!"

Demoman clutched at his head and tried to keep his brains from leaking out his ears. "Keep yer fookin' voice down! I can hardly hear me'self piss."

"What's that? You don't like the sound of my voice? Well you know what I don't like the sound of, private? Members of my infantry deciding to go AWOL! And for the love of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, put that thing away!"

Demoman looked down drowsily and realized he still had his limp cock in hand. He gave himself a few shakes and attempted to tuck himself away. He was puzzled to discover the zip to his fly missing. In fact, his pants themselves had mysteriously vanished. Demoman shrugged and just let the white material drop back down by his ankles. Once again, a conundrum he would solve later. "What're ye going on aboot? Yer ravin' like a loon"

All the yelling could not have avoided drawing attention. Medic ducked his head in to see what all the commotion was about. He had to do a double take, and then pressed a gloved hand to his mouth to cover his grin.

"Ah! Demo. Some members of our team vere taking bets on vhen you would awake. I guess I owe Herr Sniper twenty dollars. Disappointing."

"Awake?" Demoman swirled the word around. His mouth tasted like whiskey and compost. "How long have ah been out of it?"

"Vell, let's see, you have been catatonic now for nearly…" Medic looked at his watch, "two days. Once again you impress me with your inhuman ability to abuse yourself. I would give you a physical to assess ze damage, but regrettably I am running low on fresh gloves."

Demoman steadied his swaying by leaning against the wall. "Yer pullin' me leg. If I were out fer two day ah'd think ah would remember it."

"You want to know who remembers it?" Asked Soldier, brandishing his shovel. "ME! You have missed not one but TWO scheduled battles. This is a punishable offence!"

Demoman belched and took an unsteady step towards the pair. "And whatcher goin' tae do? Dress me up as a lassie? I'll cut me own head off before ye can even try."

Soldier and Medic paused to look at each other.

It was Medic who took on the job of breaking the bad news. He cleared his throat before he tentatively addressed Demoman. "I am afraid Soldier has already taken ze liberty. Do not ask me why he wanted to."

"Wha?"

Soldier was unapologetic. "You were not in a coherent state to satisfactorily dress yourself. I had to take the initiative!"

"Err, perhaps you should find yourself a mirror, Demoman. My descriptions could not prepare you."

The weary Scot eyed them suspiciously. Even with a monster of a hangover he still had the instinct to detect treachery. He even considered punching Soldier in the face to cover his bases. Even if Medic's claims of his unsolicited change in attire proved to be false, it would still be satisfying.

It was Demoman's pounding head and parched throat that eventually proved to be the decider. The small amount of energy he had produced to be outraged blew from his sails. He just couldn't care right now. "Ah fook it." He sighed, and pushed his way past the men. "I can take what ye' throw at me. Get out ah' me way."

Soldier and Medic watched Demoman wander back to the base fully aware of what would be in store for him.

Medic called out to him. "I varn you Demo, zhis is more zhan an ordinary man can tolerate."

Either Demoman didn't hear him or didn't care. He wandered away until he was out of sight. The train of his dress dragged in the dirt behind him.

Medic sighed. "Soldier, vhat even goes on in your head?"

"It's called tactical humiliation, Fritz. Look it up!"

Medic wasn't wrong. The laughter from the men reached a deafening level, which really wasn't helping Demoman's hangover.

"Oh look fellas! It's the bride to be. Shoulda kept the veil over her face."

"Groom has not arrived. This is not big surprise."

"You'll be walkin' the aisle a long time mate. Hope ya didn't put a deposit on the honeymoon."

Even Pyro joined in by humming a very muffled rendition of the wedding march.

Demoman had to hold up the bunched material to walk properly. He gracelessly strode past their jeering, making a beeline for the bathroom. He was just about ready to puke again, and this time he couldn't be sure if it was the hangover or the humiliation.

Bursting into the cool tiled room, he lunged for the sink and turned the faucet on full-bore. He drenched his face in the water and relished in its cleansing coldness. When he was satisfied, he turned off the taps and drew attention to the sorry reflection staring back at him.

The first thing he noticed was the now wet white veil pinned to his woolly hair. Tiny white pearls rimmed the tulle, following its length down the back oh his head. He blinked in surprise. This was not what he had been expecting.

The shock of the water and enough time between drinks had cleared Demoman's vision. He looked south to survey the damage.

"Aww nooo." He groaned. It was far worse than he could have ever imagined. The eggshell white of the dress was shockingly bright against his dark skin. The tight strapless upper half fit snugly against his abdomen. Garish rhinestones were sewn into the satin, subtracting from the elegance of the dress. Thick black chest hair cresting over the top of the v-cut was probably not what the designer had intended.

He placed his hands at his waist where the tightly fitted corset met an explosion of fabric. Layers upon layers of under-tulle and shiny satin made the whole outfit resemble a fluffy meringue. Demoman hadn't been to many weddings, but even he knew this was a tasteless dress. No self-respecting bride would tie the knot wearing this thing.

A snooty French voice startled him from his thoughts.

Spy leaned against the far wall, smoking and smirking." I do not like to break a woman's heart, but désolé_,_ _I am not ze type of man who can commit." ___

"Fook off ye ratbag. I don't have time for ye."

"Now, now. I do not expect such language from a blushing virgin bride."

"Ye ever been hit by ah bride?" He balled his hands into fists. "Ah'm ready fer it!"

Spy flicked his spent cigarette butt away. "Oui, once. But that is another story."

Demoman eyed Spy warily. To say that he was edge today would be an understatement.

If Spy was intimidated, he didn't show it. He approached Demoman and trailed his gloved hand down the front of the dress. He tapped his finger on one of the oversized rhinestones and sighed in disapproval. "I did think Soldier could do better than this. His recent dress choices 'ave been so on ze mark."

Demoman pulled away from Spy, his good eye shooting darts at the Frenchman. "An jus' what is tha' suppose tae mean?"

Spy stepped back and brushed some lint off his tie. "I see you 'ave not noticed. I shall explain. Soldier has been quite clever choosing costumes that will cause us ze greatest 'umiliation. For example, our good Doctor could not bear dressing down as a lowly nurse."

"Do ye have a point?"

"I 'appen to know that you are a bachelor, Demoman. You 'ave not once been married, if your company records are anything to trust."

Demoman didn't like where this was going. "Aye, what aboot it?"

"Does this not strike you as unusual? Unless, perhaps…"

"Jus' bloody spit it out!"

"Perhaps that is ze point. After all, who would want to marry a black, Scottish cyclops with a drinking problem?

Demoman took a swing at the Spy. His motor coordination was still impaired and so he miscalculated the distance between Spy's face and his fist. Spy stepped nimbly out of the way, which caused Demoman to lose his balance and crash to the ground. He lay there in a daze, his ego bruised and battered.

"Well, I bid you adieu. Do not feel too bad, it is nothing a drink can't help you forget!"

Spy could never just walk out the door. He dematerialized in a cloud of smoke, leaving Demoman alone and sprawled out across the cold tiled floor, marinating in his own misery.

That night Demoman didn't join the team for dinner.

Scout was the first to delicately point out his absence. "Yo, anyone seen bridezilla? I have some rice to throw at him."

Medic sniffed as he cut into his steak. "I expect he has passed out again somewhere. Perhaps he will die from organ failure. Check ze respawn room in ze morning."

Sniper chewed on his food thoughtfully. "Seein' him dressed up like that reminded me of me first wife. Crikey. Don't accept contract work in Vegas, that's all I'm saying."

Engineer looked across the table at Spy, who had been awfully quiet. He knew the man well enough now to recognize that smug expression. "Spah, why do I think you have somethin' to do with this? What did you say to him?"

Spy pressed a hand to his chest pretending to be hurt. "Moi? I did nothing at all. Why ze accusations laborer?"

"Cause I've seen rattlesnakes that looked more innocent." Engineer pushed his plate away. He stood up and looked down at the Frenchman. "A man has his limits. I don't expect any of you fellas understand that. I ought to go find him before he gets himself into a bigger mess."

As the team watched Engineer leave, Medic called out after the Texan. "I have plans tonight. If he is dead, leave him at my door. I vill deal vith it tomorrow."

It took some searching before Engineer finally found Demoman. He had managed to climb up onto the roof of the building, dress and all, and was now looking mournfully out across the compound that joined the RED and BLU bases.

"Howdy there," Said Engineer gently, as he climbed up to join Demoman. "Everything alright partner?"

Demoman didn't look at Engineer. He took a long swig from his scrumpy bottle and continued to stare out at the view. "Fook off."

"Now, now." Engineer held his hands up defensively. "I ain't here to pick on you. I'm only here to talk. Just lay out your troubles, I'll listen."

Demoman was quiet. The distant sound of crickets filled in the long silence between them. Finally Demoman sighed and turned his head to look at Engineer. His lone eye glistened. "Ye ever been married?"

"Sure have. In fact, it'll be ten years this month."

Demoman was silent again and then asked, "wha's it like?"

Engineer ruminated over the question. "Well, it's got its ups and downs. Mind you I'm away most'a the time. She don't take too kindly to that. But at the end of the day, I wouldn't want anything else."

Demoman took another swig and then offered the bottle to Engineer, who hesitantly accepted and took a small sip of his own. "So that's what's on your mind?"

"Spy was right. Ah'm a freak o' nature. Who'd want me?"

"Hey now!" Engineer suddenly realized how emotionally fragile the Scotsman was. Engineer wasn't exactly an expert of dealing with these situations and he was starting to regret his decision to come up here. "I can bet you a thousand sapped sentries that ain't true. Don't listen to that good-for-nothing Spah. You know he likes to rile people up."

Demoman gave a few wet sniffs before he pulled up his dress and blew his nose loudly on the hem of it. "Everyone else is settlin' down. Havin' bairns. Bein' happy. The people ah get close to usually end up blown tae bits."

"Being married don't always mean you're happy. I mean, look at the Doc." Engineer frowned as he thought about it. "In fact, didn't I hear it was _you _having it off with his wife?

"Ahh, now yer jus' tryin' tae cheer me up." Demoman took a longer, deeper swig of his scrumpy. The alcohol was taking a hold of his mind.

"I'm sure on our next service leave you'll find a sweetheart. Spah's just a lonely man who has to take it out on the rest of us."

Demoman breathed in. Some of his former vigor was returning to him. "Ye right! I should'nae even given him two cents. He's ah piece'a cocklicking frog shite."

Engineer breathed a sigh of relief, happy that the crisis had been adverted. When he finally allowed himself to relax, he was unexpectedly caught in a tight embrace with Demoman.

"Yer a blessin', Engie." Slurred Demoman as he squeezed the Texan tighter.

"Hey," Said Engineer nervously. "I do what I can." When he smelled the potency of Demoman's breath, he knew he had greatly miscalculated how drunk the man was. He patted a hand on Demo's back and tried to pull away. He was only drawn in tighter.

"Ah, should give ye somethin' for bein' so kind."

"No. You shouldn't. That really ain't necessary!"

Engineer's pleas fell on deaf ears. Before he knew it, Demoman was peppering his face with sloppy kisses.

"Ah fookin' luv ya." He muttered drunkenly.

It was only until Demoman began to fiddle with the belt of his pants that Engineer really began to panic.

"Whoa! Slow down cowboy! This ain't right."

Demoman was now pressing his weight down on Engineer, hands and lips were everywhere. Engineer wondered how far he could let this go until he had to get violent. Fortunately, the problem was solved when Demoman man slumped against him, motionless.

Engineer looked at his assailant in bewilderment. He gave the man a shark poke in the side to see if he could get a reaction. Nothing.

"Well if this ain't a situation." He pulled himself out from under the unconscious man, recovering from his slight shock. Demoman was sprawled out on the roof tiles in his white dress, snoring like a bullhorn.

Engineer considered leaving him there. Molestation wasn't something he appreciated. If he could spend two days passed out in a barn he could handle night on the roof.

Eventually his soft heart won out. He bundled the lifeless Scotsman in his arms, bridle style and groaned with the effort. Demoman weighed more than any self-respecting bride should.

He managed to get downstairs, and had the misfortune of bumping into Scout on his journey to Demoman's bedroom.

"If it isn't the happy couple. You fellas on your honeymoon? Don't break the bed."

Somehow, Demoman didn't feel so heavy when throwing him at loudmouth Scouts.


	6. Sniper

Someone pointed out to me that I completely missed the introduction of this chapter. I have really got to start paying attention. It's back now, and if you rereading this, you get a little bonus.

Also, likes to remove my little dividers. Why does it do that? I have to go back and put them all in again. Gosh!

* * *

><p>Sniper cocked his rifle and lined up his shot. Sheets of rain blew across the compound, turning the figures in his crosshair into blurry blobs. Today was not a good day to be a Sniper.<p>

He growled and dared to take a step closer towards the skirmish. The wind had taken a turn was now soaking him with the full force of the downpour. The calls of his teammates were drowned in the maelstrom and the whistling in his ears had turned deafening. He didn't know if it was the wind or an approaching rocket.

A bullet whizzed over Sniper's head.

Well, at least the opposing sniper was having trouble too.

There was nothing for it. He tried his luck and sent a few random shots out into the torrent. He didn't like wasting ammunition, but with ten minutes left on the clock and no chance of overtime, he was running out of options.

He knew the situation was desperate when he actually considered just pulling out his kukri and jumping into the fray. He could probably squeeze in a few last minute kills if he was lucky.

A muffled cough behind him interrupted Sniper's thoughts.

With a grumble, he slung his rifle over his back stepped back from the ledge.

"What do you want, Spook?"

"Moi?" The RED Spy leaned against the back wall, doing his best to look dignified as he shielded his cigarette from the wind. "Why, I am simply here to give an old friend moral support."

"Sure y'are. More like take the piss. I've been round long enough to know how you tick."

Spy pressed a hand to his chest. "I did not think I was so transparent. You 'urt me Sniper."

"Come off it. You know I'm done for." Sniper sighed. He gave one last lingering look at the battle. It was hopeless and he knew it. With a heavy heart he joined Spy's side. He took off his sopping hat and gratefully accepted a cigarette. "Guess it was goin' to happen sooner or later. I wonder what Solly's got in store for me? Crikey, did you see what he put Heavy in? Poor bloke. That just ain't professional."

"I admit, I was curious also." Said Spy. "Of course, I simply did not 'ave ze patience to wait, so I took ze liberty of consulting Soldier. You are in for quite ze night!"

"Get out! Bloody hell Spook, can't trust you as far as we can throw ya." He folded his arms and feigned outrage. The rain was really picking up now, and the battlefield had descended into muddy chaos. A sudden explosion rattled the ground before a distant shriek of Scout reached their ears.

He couldn't contain his curiosity any longer. "So… what's in store for me then?"

"Oh ho Bushman! And here I though you were an honorable man. Well, I do not want to spoil ze surprise. Where would ze fun be in that?"

"Y'know, you're just a bloody great tease, aincha?" Sniper took a deep drag on his cigarette before the wind could blow it out.

"Oh oui, I know." Spy smirked.

* * *

><p>When Sniper first laid eyes on his frock, he was gobsmacked. The fine fabric spread out across his bed like a gossamer yellow ghost from the past. It dredged up uncomfortable memories. Memories that he'd thought he had left far behind him.<p>

He only knew one thing. Soldier couldn't have chosen this dress by coincidence. Someone must have tipped him off, and Sniper had a fair idea who the culprit was. He balled his hands into fists, only barely managing to keep his temper in check. "Bloody wanker," he seethed. "When I see that tosser I'll set a boot up his clacker!"

Sniper's outrage was short-lived. He looked at the dress again and slumped his shoulders in defeat. For now, there wasn't much he could do. Despite some animosity, the rest of the team had dutifully worn their dresses. Sniper didn't want to be the first to be a poor sport about it. Even if he did refuse, he knew that Solider was just beyond his bedroom door, armed to the teeth and ready to forcibly dress any troop thinking about deserting their duties.

The elegant outfit slipped over his square frame with surprising ease. Goosebumps tingled across his skin as the satin slid down his legs. Sniper reached around the back of the dress to pull the zip and was taken by surprise when a hard lump formed in his throat. He thought this part of his life was dead and buried. He was a mercenary now. Cold, ruthless, professional.

He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to shut out the painful memories that were threatening to bubble to the surface. Sniper tried to get grip with a few deep breaths and repeatedly reminded himself; it was only a dress.

Despite being a vivid canary yellow, the colour didn't detract from the grace of the dress. The wispy strips of material attached connecting the wrists and waist emphasised every movement of the arm. The plummeting v-neck was speckled with sequins, shimmering as they caught the light. They followed the cut of the dress, until the bottom flared out at ankle length. The hem was lined with small fluffy yellow feathers. Satin, elbow length gloves completed the look.

The strappy gold high heels fit as snugly as the dress. It was the kind of shoe that would break your ankle if you took even the slightest misstep. The rugged Australian was all too familiar with that occupational hazard. Far too many of his dancing partners had fallen victim to the peril of those impractical shoes. Once again his memory turned to his younger days. "Bugger," he whispered, gripping his skirt in panic. He couldn't get emotional. Not wearing this. His team would never let him forget it.

The clack of Soldier's boots at his door made it clear to Sniper that his time for lamenting was over. Now all he could do was step outside and face the music.

Sniper took in a deep breath before switching to his game face. He was cool, calm, professional. He wouldn't let a pretty ballroom dress undo him. If he had to wear a dress, he was going to take it the only way he knew how.

Like a man.

Sniper's debut as the lady of the base was, strangely, not as agonizing as he had feared. As more team members were subjected to this hazing, their sympathy increased. The only real antagonists that remained were Soldier and Scout. Nevertheless he took their mockery admirably. He was more interested in having a few words with Spy. The wily Frenchman however, was mysteriously absent.

The day wore on until dinnertime rolled around.

Scout elbowed Pyro in the side. "Hey, can you ask Cinderella over there to pass the salt?"

"For the last bloody time, this is a ballroom dress!" Sniper thumped his fists on the table, making the cutlery rattle. "I ain't some empty-headed princess."

"Could've fooled me. Are you going to get the salt or do I have to wait another century, toots?"

"Someone else can get it. I'll get sauce on my sleeves." Sniper stroked his gloves fondly.

Engineer tilted his helmet to give Sniper a proper look. "Ah say Sniper, if you weren't an old fellah, I'd almost say you were a vision and a half."

Sniper wasn't sure how to take that compliment. "Cheers?"

Soldier had just refuelled with a hefty plate of barbecue ribs and now had renewed vigor to belittle his cadet. "Are you _enjoying_ yourself, Private! Do you think this is some kind of sleepover where we drink tea and plait our hair? You are a disgrace and a delinquent!" He wildly brandished his steak knife. "I don't see your head hanging. Hang it! I want to see the _shame_ in your eyes."

Sniper hung his head because it was just easier that way. He looked down at the chest hair sprouting over the neckline. A self-respecting dancer would have waxed that off. He really would have to even out his tan too.

"This is dancing dress?" Heavy piped up with interest. "Does leetle Sniper know how to do this, what do you call it, _ballroom_?"

"No." Sniper said quickly. "Never done it in my life."

"It is just, you were so good at the ballet. Maybe..."

"I've never done it, alright!" Sniper rose from his seat. "And you can quit pestering me about it. I'm done here."

Sniper left abruptly, leaving the rest of the team too look at each other in bemusement.

Soldier addressed the remaining team with self-satisfaction. "Take note men! That there is textbook shame. We'll make a man out of him yet!"

* * *

><p>When the day was done and dusted, Sniper was just thankful to return to his campervan and be away from those hooligans. It hadn't taken him very long to adjust his centre of gravity and master the art of walking in heels, but even so, they were murder on his feet.<p>

He flopped onto his foldout mattress with a groan. What a day. He stared at the grimy roof of the van and finally allowed himself a moment of weakness. Old memories of Sniper's days on the dance floor flooded his thoughts. As hard as he had tried to move on, his former life as a competitive ballroom dancer haunted him. His passion for dancing hadn't ended with ballet. His aptitude for the art of movement only intensified as he entered his teen years. It quickly became an addiction. He trained daily and thrived in the cutthroat environment that was competitive ballroom dancing. He wanted to be the best, and the international championship was the shining target that would prove his worth.

No. That was over now. He had moved on. This little incident was simply a bump on his new path as a hired assassin. With another sigh he swung his legs over the side of his bed. He reached down to remove his gold stilettos.

His hand hovered over the strap. He simply couldn't bring himself to take them off. As comical as they looked on his large feet, he unable to resist leaning back and admiring their shape.

He stood up and approached the mirror above his kitchenette. Sniper grimaced and ran a hand down his unshaven cheek. Perhaps he should spend just a little more time on his appearance. Maybe then he wouldn't look like such a broken old man who got himself into situations like this.

He stepped back to get a better look at himself. Okay. Maybe it wasn't _terrible_. He let his hands drift down the sides of the dress, feeling the rough texture of the sequins brush his fingers. He turned his body to the side and appraised his figure. At least he hadn't let himself get out of shape. The cut of the dress wasn't exactly harmonising with his boxy torso, but it could be a whole lot worse.

Away from judgement, Sniper finally surrendered to his desires. He twirled on one foot and shimmied his hips as he practised a few basic ballroom steps. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and was quickly overcome with embarrassment.

_Bugger this, _thought Sniper. Wearing this damn thing must be warping his mind. He stepped back from the mirror and away from that bizarre reflection. He began to pull at the zip on the side of his dress, eager to get out of it.

"Do not stop now Bushman, I am enjoying ze show."

Sniper whirled around to discover Spy perched on the end of his bed, nonchalantly smoking a cigarette.

Enraged, Sniper's hand unconsciously darted to his side, searching for his absent kukri. "You! How the hell did you get in? Piss off!"

Spy clearly wasn't in a hurry to leave. "'ow rude. Do you treat all your guests so poorly?"

"You ain't my guest. You ain't even on the waiting list. Out!"

Spy flicked from ash from his cigarette and leaned back on the bed. He looked around the small van at his leisure. "This is where you retreat to at night? You really must update your décor. It is just… depressing"

Sniper took two steps towards the interloper. He was ready to forcibly remove the Spy if necessary.

"But I am surprised, Sniper. Wearing this dress seems to have rattled you. You are supposed to be a man of composure."

Sniper gripped Spy by the lapels. "And I wouldn't suppose you had something to do with it? Huh? You been doin' your homework? Snoopin' through my history?"

Spy pulled Sniper's hand from his suit and brushed the crumpled fabric in distaste. "Please. I would 'ardly be a good spy if I didn't have a dependable reserve of blackmail material."

"Even from your teammates?"

"_Especially_ your teammates. Ze biggest mistake you can make is thinking that you can trust someone." With a triumphant gleam in his eyes, Spy reached into his coat and revealed a manila envelope. The name 'Sniper' was written on the cover in black marker. Never had a flimsy sheet of cardboard looked so ominous.

"What's this?" Sniper pulled away warily. "What've you got in that?"

"Oh, just a few little inconsequential things. I don't know if it would interest you."

"Spook!" Sniper balled his hands into fists. His patience was stretched tissue thin.

Spy cracked the folder open and began to flick through its contents. "Well, since you seem to be so curious, I did find something that aroused my interest."

He pulled out a yellowed newspaper clipping and handed it to Sniper. Their hands brushed as the brittle paper slid into Sniper's hand.

Sniper looked down at the newspaper in disbelief. It was a short article, published by the Adelaide Times and dated 1954. However, it was the image that really set his emotions awhirl. It was a grainy black and white photograph of a handsome young man with oiled back hair, dressed to the nines in a pair of pressed pants and a glittering vest. Beside him was a ravishing woman with curly dark locks. Remarkably, her dress was an exact replica of the outfit that Sniper was now wearing, right down to the sequin. Their smiles were pained as they faced the camera.

The headline burned into Sniper's eyes.

_National Ballroom Champions Disqualified_

Sniper slowly sat down on the bed beside Spy, his shoulders hunched and defeated. He gripped the paper in his hands, unable to tear his eyes away. There was a long pause before he could muster the will to talk. That headline kept squeezing his heart.

_Disqualified_

"Me and Fran. We worked so hard. Blimey, that was a long time ago…" He crumpled the paper in his fist and looked forward with an icy intensity. "It was the Pan-Pacific Grand Prix. The biggest competition in Australia. We trained like dogs to get there. Fran, she… she begged to stick with the routine. But no. I was a stubborn bloody idiot. Got cocky, tried to be a maverick. Thought I could win it with my own steps." Sniper took a deep breath. His voice grew thick with emotion. "I made a fool of myself. Both of us. We were disqualified and banned from future competitions. I never danced again."

Not expecting such a heartbreaking revelation, Spy could only try to comfort Sniper by pulling an arm around his shoulder. "That was an international championship, I believe. I hear you were quite ze accomplished dancer. Pity."

The venom in Sniper's voice shocked Spy.

"You happy now Spook? Huh? Proven what you needed to? That I'm a failure and a fraud? Congratulations."

Sniper shrugged off Spy's arm and rose to his feet. He kicked off his gold heels, shuffled over to the medicine cabinet and produced a half-empty bottle of whisky along with a grimy shot glass.

"Well, you've done your damage. Piss off. I can't even look at ya."

Spy didn't move. He pulled out his cigarette case as Sniper knocked back two glasses of amber liquid in quick succession. Watching a man on the edge of emotional stability was always an interesting experience.

Sniper shook his head after the last acrid shot. He looked back up at Spy. "You still here? Got any more surprises in your rotten bag of tricks?"

Spy took a drag on a fresh cigarette and returned Sniper's heated gaze. "Non. You may find this 'ard to believe, but I was never here to 'umiliate you."

"Is that right?" Sniper chuckled in disbelief before pouring himself another shot. "Of all the lines I've heard from you, that one is grade-A rubbish."

Spy adjusted his tie and arose to approach Sniper. Naturally, Sniper watched his every movement in suspicion. Spy dared to run a finger down the front of Sniper's dress, feeling the texture of the sequins through his leather gloves. "It would be such a shame if this dress did not serve its purpose tonight."

Sniper didn't like their proximity and stepped away. "What does that mean?"

Spy smiled, making sure his cigarette didn't fall from his lips. "I happen to be an experienced dancer myself. Your specialty was the Paso Doble, was it not?"

Sniper's eyebrows skyrocketed into his hairline. "You?" He spluttered.

"Oui. This is not so strange, is it? I am a man of many skills. It just so happens that dancing is a requirement of my profession." He held out his hand for Sniper. "I simply needed to confirm that is was indeed you in that photograph. So, will you join me tonight? It has been so long since I 'ave had the opportunity."

Sniper looked at Spy's outstretched hand. He kept his face as unreadable as cold stone. Seconds passed without a move until Spy had to pull his hand back. He didn't want the moment to get any more awkward.

"Well," said Spy as he flicked away the remains of his cigarette. "It does not 'appen often, but I know when I am rejected. I should not be surprised. I overstepped ze boundaries tonight."

He smoothed his coat down and moved towards the door. "I won't push ze issue any further. I bid you adieu."

Spy pulled the rickety handle and fresh night air billowed into the van. He slyly looked over his shoulder. "However, If you should reconsider, you know where to find me. I can guarantee you, I am 'ard to beat."

The door snapped shut and Spy was gone.

Sniper, blinked at the empty space where Spy had stood. He looked up and caught himself in the mirror's reflection once more.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, and poured another shot.


	7. The Dance

I wrote this months ago and am now just publishing it here. It's probably for the best because I re-read it and found 1001 errors. ENJOY!

* * *

><p>Whilst the rain had eased, it had left the ground a sodden mess. Sniper took care to lift the hem of his dress as he made his way to the main building. As soon as he reached the door he shucked off his mud-encrusted boots and slipped back into his gold heels.<p>

He wiggled his toes, making sure they were on tight. They clopped against floorboards and echoed down the hall. He tried to tread as carefully as he could manage. He wasn't interested in explaining himself to curious teammates.

The metronome of the wall clock reminded him that it was close to 2 am. He knew that everyone would be in bed by now, and a good chance that Spy was no longer waiting for him. But this was how long it had taken him to muster the courage to seek him out. The whisky had just about worn off, and as its numbing effects faded his self-loathing resurfaced twice as strong.

"Piss," he mumbled for the hundredth time. This was ridiculous and he knew it. An inexplicable urge was pressuring him to give in to his temptations. This bad weather was a one off and he'd been thrown off his game. But, ultimately, it had led to an unexpected opportunity. He didn't know if he'd give himself another chance to dress like this.

He reached the end of the hall and cracked open the door to the recreation room. A solitary lamp sat in the corner; its sparse light illuminating the battered furniture. Someone had pushed everything up against the walls, leaving an open space in the centre.

He stepped into the clearing, looking for any sign of life. His shoe clacking was the only sound to break the oppressive silence that permeated that little room.

"Spook?" He tentatively asked. There was no answer. Sniper sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He didn't know if he should be relieved or disappointed. Somehow Spy's absence only made him feel more the fool.

He slumped on a nearby couch. He didn't really want to go back to his van so soon. He idly stroked his dress. As he touched the vibrant fabric, vivid memories of his dancing days appeared clear in his mind. He smiled as he remembered some of the better times. He and Fran would dance through hot afternoons and continue long after the sun set. Time stood still when they moved together. As much as he liked shooting people, it just wasn't the same kind of magic.

"Bloody Spy." He muttered to himself. "He missed out on some good moves."

"Well, I was beginning to think that you had stood me up Bushman. I am intrigued. What are these _moves_ you speak of?"

Spy still had the ability to catch Sniper off guard. He jolted around to see Spy casually perched on the team's moth-eaten snooker table. He'd removed his jacket, looking completely at ease in his waistcoat and rolled sleeves.

Sniper pinched the bridge of his nose. "When you want something you don't give up, do you?"

Spy laughed and slid off the table. "Anyone who has met me would know that. But I admit, if you had come any later I would have resigned this as a lost cause."

He offered his hand to Sniper, who momentarily hesitated before he accepted it. Spy pulled him to his feet.

The Frenchman looked him up and down with a sly smile. "You are ravishing, Bushman."

"Come off it. Besides, this ain't any sillier than your bloody maid getup."

"Oh? You didn't seem to think it was so silly that day."

"Yeah, well. Somethin' must've been in the water. I swear I saw Truckie picking flowers after he spoke to you."

"Is that so? Then I must make sure to thank him later."

Sniper didn't know what to make of that, so he brushed it off and decided to just avoid preamble. "So, you've done some dancing then? Go on. Show us what you've got."

"Please. I am not a show pony anymore than you are. I need a skilled partner to demonstrate ze best of my abilities." He made a wide, sweeping gesture and opened his arms. He waggled his brows at Sniper.

"You know I only dance lead."

"I think it is fair to make an exception in this circumstance." He raised an eyebrow at Sniper's flowing dress to punctuate his point.

Sniper was still reluctant to subvert tradition. The female dancer certainly had the harder job, but it was also unquestioned that she was the glittering centre of attention on the dance floor. He also knew it would be sacrilege to dance lead wearing this thing. "Hmph. You're lucky I'm a pro. Ain't too many blokes who could pull it off."

"I am only too glad to hear it. Shall we begin?"

Sniper thought it would be a bit awkward just to throw himself at Spy without a proper send in. "It's hard enough being a sheila, but it's even harder when there's no rhythm. Do you have any tunes?"

"Please. I am ze Spy! It is my job to think of everything."

Spy excused himself and loped away to a dark corner of the room. Sniper stood awkwardly in the centre of the room, wondering what the man was up to and secretly praying that he could follow Spy's lead and not make a complete cock of himself. Eventually, after a bit of shuffling, Spy emerged with a hefty gramophone in his arms. He placed it on a table with a thump.

"I 'borrowed' this from ze Doctor's office. I did not ask permission, but I am sure he will never know it was gone." He pulled out a record sleeve and waved it at Sniper. "Finding a good recording of this was ze 'ard part. You can thank me later."

He carefully slipped the shiny black record from its cover and placed it on the gramophone. The needle began to run along the grooves, and a crackle later a very familiar tune filled the room.

As the first guitar chords of España Cañí reached his ears, a wave of sentimentality washed over Sniper. He could almost smell the hairspray in the air. "Crikey, that takes me back."

"I hope this is adequate to get you 'in the mood'. Paso Doble was not my specialty, but I believe I can keep up."

Sniper looked back at Spy with a fresh grin. "You better, mate. I have standards."

The two men looked each other down with purpose. The music took hold of Sniper's limbs, and he carefully stepped backwards, raising his hands in the air. It was the customary position before the start of the dance. Despite Spy's uncertainties he seemed to know exactly what to do. He took a step backwards with a controlled sway of the hips. He straightened his posture like a strutting peacock.

"Show me what you've got, filthy jar man."

"Try not to step on my toes, frog."

Even his wildest dreams Sniper couldn't have expected the intensity between them. They clashed together and his body embraced the music like an old friend. He was even keeping his balance in those precarious shoes. Sniper had danced follow before, but only as a means to understand his partner's steps. Now, as he let Spy lead him through the dance, he truly understood the thrill of it.

"Not bad, for a codger." He teased as he twirled around his partner. His dress fluttered after his body, accentuating his movements.

"I must admit," breathed Spy as he concentrated on his timing, "you are impressive."

Spy took him by the hand and pressed their chests together. The intimacy didn't bother Sniper as much as he feared. He was too caught up in the dance to care.

Spy moved Sniper's hand to rest on his waist, guiding his movements. Only experience stopped their legs from tangling together. They were so close that Sniper could smell the potent aroma of Spy's aftershave.

Sniper ducked and weaved around Spy. They moved in harmony, anticipating each other's steps before their next move. They were nearing the end of the routine now. The chorus of trumpets heralded the climax of the dance. Their eyes were locked on each other, electricity crackled around them.

The gramophone jumped, sending the music to a grinding halt.

The spell was shattered. In his surprise Sniper misplaced his foot, sending the both of them tumbling to the floor.

It was a chaotic tangle of satin, sequins and legs. Sniper was draped over Spy, struggling to catch his breath. As they both recovered from the shock their eyes met. That was all it took. They pressed their mouths together and kissed with the urgency of love-starved teenagers.

Sniper moved his legs up to fit more comfortably around Spy's hips. Spy wasted no time either, running his hands under the fabric of Sniper's skirt to gain more access.

"I haven't," breathed Sniper between kisses, "felt like this for years."

"Nor I –OH- keep doing that!"

Their touching was getting frantic. The sound of Spy's unbuckling belt only spurred Sniper on. He ground their hips together, revelling in the hot breath against his neck and the warm body pressed against his.

"Oh god," Sniper hissed. In one deft move Spy spun them around, asserting his dominance over the man. He hooked Sniper's legs around his waist, making sure to avoid those sharp heels. His wandering hand had found its way beneath Sniper's dress, and had now taken both their erections in hand, stroking them in tandem.

"You dance better than any woman." Spy groaned, using his free hand to reach around and grope Sniper's exposed thigh.

"Cause I'm the bloody _best_!" Sniper reaffirmed his statement by bucking into Spy's hand, and pulling him in for another bruising kiss.

The passion couldn't last. They came together gasping, swearing and hanging on to each other for dear life.

The gramophone continued to crackle, mingling with the sound of laboured breaths. They lay wrapped around each other, dazed as the heat slowly subsided.

Spy was the first the pull away, smoothing down his wrinkled shirt and clearing his throat. "Well… this is awkward."

Sniper would have made a similarly uncomfortable statement if something hadn't caught his eye. "Err… do you wear frilly knickers every day, or is that just for me?"

Spy looked down to discover that, with the trousers undone, his lacy black panties were exposed to the world. He quickly tucked himself in and zipped up his pants with a speed that would make Scout proud.

Even with the balaclava disguising his face he looked so mortified that Sniper was left with no alternative but to laugh out loud. He gripped his sides, almost crying with hysterics. The tension was broken.

"What?" Said Spy, trying to salvage some of his dignity. "They are comfortable. I do not see ze shame in it."

"I shoulda known you were a bloody poof. Are you wearing a bra too?" Sniper laughed again. He pushed himself to a sitting position, pulling down his dress for modesty. He was dismayed to discover that the lining was splattered with sticky white droplets. "Piss, that'll never come out."

Spy had moved to lean against the couch. He lit two cigarettes and handed one to Sniper, who accepted it gratefully. "I will pay for ze dry cleaning."

They smoked in silence, still both a little befuddled by this whole incident.

"Y'know. You could improve your posture. It would make it easier to follow you." Said Sniper when he reached the end of his smoke.

"Well, some of your steps were out of time! I suppose you were out of practice." Rebutted Spy.

"Guess we both need more practice..."

They sat side by side, staring at the crackling gramophone as that statement hung in the air. "So… same time tomorrow?"

"Oui. That would be for the best."


End file.
